Pursuit

 Joy is too large to wrap

Anything around,

Mind, Body, universe...

Whereas happy seems to fit

like a coin, a stone, a ladybug,

in the palm

leaving no trace.

Happy comes and goes

while Joy

lingers

imperceptibly, inescapably

Inside.

After chasing

Thing to thing

The cat purrs on my chest-

He cannot get any closer. 

Image credit: me. Photo of SSW, aka Smokey, c. 10/21/2022. 

The Happiness Pursuit

Personally,

I found Joy

frequently 

in fleeting moments

such as when 

the forty finches

fly into the ten-foot-tall

hibiscus 

for a breakfast buffet

of aphid ecstasy, 

platters sparkling and

moist with dawn dew

while the sun undresses

all the buds and

peels back perfect petals

with warm invitation

as in seduction.

Watching my cat

Goose

standing bipedal and erect, 

head cocked and

cackling quite curiously

at the busy borage of birds,

attempting to talk to them.

The finches 

feel no fear

seeming to respect

that we were here

first,

fleeing only when full.

Image credit: Poyt448 Peter Woodard, Hibiscus splendens - flower, a rainforest tree or shrub of eastern Australia taken 11/2005 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

wild is relative to tame

The wildcat lazes in my lap,
his sleep disturbed suddenly by my human
sounds-briefly he stirs to make certain it was not him,
my stomach growls at him,
when his attention snaps suddenly, pupils go black
above me, behind and over my head,
enrapt in some blurred glassy vision-
I see-I feel nothing-my vision is going-
and he is cautious, cowering without stalking-it moves
His focus-
Upward again,
I peak-

A cobweb, or ghost spider home
flutters downward over us.
The hall light flickers, like my pulse
and then I can only close my eyes
and pretend I am purring along.

We rest our heavy animal heads
and listen in deeper
but fall into the same trap
as our hairs, split evenly
and stroked lightly
by an errant cool breeze.
It was touching
to be chosen

likewise.

He-line

Like a cat

tame or otherwise-

A man

will attack if touched

where he is most tender.

Artwork by Gwen John [Public domain].

No gift receipt

Give me
a dry wood chair sitting in the filtered summer sun...
Give me
a dry chair in the summer sun and a thin book of dense poetry to peruse...
Give me
a dry chair in the summer sun with some poetry to read and my blue cat upon my lap,
smiling.
Give me
a wood chair in the filtered sunlight with some sweet poetry and a fat happy cat along with a fuzzy soft peach sweating sugar at hand...
Give me
a warm chair in a little shade, some sweet words and a light breeze, along with a little purring, sticky lips from stone fruits, and the tiny taps of beak smacking mocking birds...
Give me
a chair in the sun, sweet poetry to sink my teeth into, a comfortable cat and a bleeding pen that simply translates all the birds' words,
then I am spoiled
in a shower of gifts,
sated and barefoot in the Bermuda.



Painting by Béla Iványi-Grünwald, 'Lady sitting in the arbor' (1903) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Rae of sight

She was the one who spotted

a fawn in the thicket.

She felt watched and sought the source.

Her eyes pulled up to the top cap of a cement post

where a cat has perched his torso behind a trees' trunk,

she catches a green flash and but holds it like a butterfly.

She did not smell the smoke since she was not there,

she pointed out the scorched earth,

noting the stain of fire.

The marine layers danced in choral lines

without fear of heights,

her sights set upon cirrus clouds,

she traces her lips over the shape of words

forming patches on her salted skin,

she is alone in wondering

how to move the world

without making a sound.


Painting by Franz Marc, 'Deer in aMonasteryy Garden' (1912) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Turning over

At 2:24 dark, the mockingbird, and moon

Conspired to wake me,

I rise, finally, compulsive-

By three thirty both have fallen back down

It is only me awake

Again

In this nook, near a shelf in the world.

The cats all sleep deeply at this hour,

The only ripple above is me.

Already, I have sought in the low light

And scoured the flat surfaces for the source

Of the voice-

As though if I knew this

I could sleep through the music

Conducting words my way

Some sink in

Such as

-Begin and Again-

i-am-hear.


Painting by Oscar Florianus Bluemner, 'Moon-Night-Mood' (1929) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

a little birdie knows no wordies

Little tawny thrush
why so jumpy? Spring has not sprung.
And you have certainly known before now
the cats that live here-this pride.

Silly sparrow, 'twas all made up
those felines would not know what to do
with you-yet how they do like watching
all the twitching
you do.

Look over here! Cackles rise,
this tweet and grub dash,
fidget and dart,
you cool hearted busy birdy,
on holiday.

The cat sees your ploy-a quick dip
in the fountain-this one couldn't care,
he laughs a hoarse then licks his nails.
Oh, this little bunting
gets behind his pinprick hot holed ears
and says-or chirps-
POTUS, po' po' us, po' us another
wergle fumpus, with yellow belly feathers, like a lilly livered loiterer,
tethered to others, such as the not so rare big-billion-billed cuckoo,
Who, who, who knew-
how to flap in place.

Polly-ana-cracker-barrell-of-monks like these-
Just look at that jittery pulpy face,
ask, just ask, he is fluffed and full of flock
puffy and inflated on a fence takes no flight
path to escape,
the last words were purr-purr
after the cat
finally got his tongue.

Painting by Louis Émile Pinel de Grandchamp [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sponge Rob and Kitty Pants

From the East, golden light pours out over the
sleepy soppy treetops.
The raw fence slats all smoke in the sultry sun
after a rough night of being naked and exposed,
unstained as of Yet.
Loitering lumberly after the storm,
the weathering of wrinkled wood
lining up swollen.

The injured cat laps the rays up
like this warm milk from my fingertip.
He has been hurt again,
he is healing in the soft morning sun,
and smiles like Buddha or Krishna,
with milk on his chin.

The topaz sky looks newly buffed
and polished, it holds no dark veins today.
Offering up another chance
to dry out and soak it all in a day.
Porous (Poor us), all stormy moods have been washed
away, now suede-ing softly

in the strong dawn honeyed sun.



Image By Photos Public Domain [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.